


the monsters in our beds

by silkstocking



Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: 2019 Stanley Cup Playoffs, Angst and Fluff, Dallas Stars, M/M, Sleeping Together
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-25
Updated: 2019-05-25
Packaged: 2020-03-17 10:05:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 437
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18963061
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/silkstocking/pseuds/silkstocking
Summary: All he wants to do right now is sleep.





	the monsters in our beds

**Author's Note:**

  * For [purgatorymaybe](https://archiveofourown.org/users/purgatorymaybe/gifts).



The flight out of St Louis is as quiet as Esa has ever heard it. He sits alone, like the rest, and closes his eyes against the combined weight of exhaustion and sadness that threatens to pull tears from the corners of them. He knows that Miro and Roope could use some kindness, and that John is shooting looks at him from across the way. But Esa feels just as helpless as any of them, and all he wants to do right now is sleep.

Maybe when he wakes up, this will turn out to have been nothing but a stress nightmare.

 

Esa wakes as they touch down at Love Field, and, yeah—not a nightmare. Jamie is standing at the front of the plane like an flight attendant as they disembark, patting guys on the shoulder or the butt, dishing out quiet words to each as they pass. He clasps Esa’s hand and pulls him into a hug, murmuring, “You were a fucking warrior for us, Ess. Go sleep. We’ll get ‘em next year.”

Esa can’t respond around the lump in his throat. He squeezes Jamie’s hand instead, and thinks that Jamie understands.

John tries to catch Esa’s eye again on the way out to the parking lot, but Esa keeps his gaze trained straight ahead. 

 

The couple hours sleep he grabbed on the flight almost seems to work against him when he gets home. Despite the bone-deep exhaustion in his body, his mind won’t quiet. The same images keep flickering behind his eyelids: watching Maroon’s shot whistle past Bish in game 3. Roope’s gritted teeth as the trainer pulled his skate off after game 6. Bish tonight, breaking his stick on the boards next to Esa as they trooped, defeated, off the ice after two periods of overtime, after a long, hard fight. 

After the third time he kicks the blankets off, he gropes for his phone on the nightstand, squinting against the screen glare as he unlocks it and types out a message to John.

_If you’re still up. Come over._

and then,

_Sorry_

 

He’s dozing, finally, when he feels the bed dip behind him, followed by John’s familiar long limbs wrapping around him like an ice-cold koala.

“Fuck, what are you, a corpse?” Esa grumbles, but he tangles his fingers with John’s anyway where they rest on his hip.

“I’m going to go to Worlds,” John says, his voice a hoarse whisper, the scrape of his beard rough against the nape of Esa’s neck.

“Okay. Sleep now. Bring me back a silver medal.”

“Gold,” John murmurs. He drives a hard bargain.

 

Esa sleeps.


End file.
